


(Don't) Sleep with the Fishes

by MarrowInTheBone



Series: How Voidpunk of You [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aliens, Amphibians, Aromantic, Gen, High School, POV First Person, Slight suggestiveness, Voidpunk, cursing, romance repulsion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 11:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15994178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarrowInTheBone/pseuds/MarrowInTheBone
Summary: Breathing's difficult when your gills are dry. Too bad they dry out often when it comes to me being an alien.





	(Don't) Sleep with the Fishes

**Author's Note:**

> I nominate this for Worst Title Ever.

Breathing is hard when your gills are dry.

I don't like rushing to the school bathroom, sticking my neck at an awkward angle under the faucet and groping for the cold faucet in order to get water running over my gills (I can't tell you how many times I've accidentally burnt myself by turning on the hot faucet). It's a mess, as you can easily tell, and really hard to explain when your old friend who's worried why you ran off like that walks in on you.

But I also like breathing––you know, since it keeps me alive?––and that outweighs my dislike. I can't help but feel frustrated at times, though, that I have to do this; why isn't there any accommodations for me?

And then I remember that I'm the only one I know who's like this.

I let out a sigh, raising my head up from the sink basin––which is a mistake, I soon realize, because now the water's dripping onto my shirt.

I grumble, grabbing bunches and bunches of the cheap paper towels from the dispenser before I start to dab at the area.

I don't know why I'm like this; all I know is that I've been like this since I was a kid. I don't know the word for it (or even if there is one), so I've taken to just describing myself as an alien. Alien makes it sound cool.

I happen to glance at the mirror. I still look disturbed from... earlier.

My gills flare out at the recent memory, exposing themselves to even more air.

I grunt. They always do that whenever I'm in situations like with that dumbass Harry.

Harry isn't an alien like me; he's a human.

For some reason, during lunch, he had taken a seat next to me, his face all smug grins.

Naturally, I was suspicious. "What're you doing here?"

He leaned in closer. My gills opened up in fear. _He's going to do it, isn't he?_

"Y'know, there's that dance coming up, and I thought it'd be cool if we'd go together." And as if it wasn't bad enough, he put on a sultry gaze. "They got the old hag Mrs. Richardson chaperoning, and her eyes don't work anymore. We could do whatever we want."

The air was suffocating me; _he_ was suffocating me. I felt hot, but not in the good way like people would describe in these situations. "I-I need to go," was all I said, grabbing my bag with my webbed hand, standing up and power-walking away so I wouldn't seem too desperate to leave. I think the damage was already done, though.

At the very least, it was certainly done to my gills. I scratch at them, still feeling that burning itch.

This sucks. I have to deal with this too often for comfort, and yet it's damn near impossible to avoid. I can't even enjoy music all that often because it's _always_ about the same freakin' thing.

And I can't even try and get people to leave me alone with it, because that would mean having to explain that I'm an alien––and from what little movies I have seen, I think it's safe to say that humans don't like aliens.

I hear the door to the bathroom open, and I whirl around. My friend is there, a frown on his face.

He only has to look down at the neck of my shirt to see what's happened.

"It happened again?" he asks, walking in and letting the door swing closed.

I sigh out. "Yeah. Harry..." I can't even say it, instead letting the silence drag.

"Yeah, he's an ass," he says, slinging his backpack to his front and unzipping it. "I should have an extra shirt for gym. It'll be a bit baggy, but it'll work."

"Dude, you don't have to do that. It's my fault I get worked up like this."

"It's not your fault that he tried to get with you like that when he knows you've never been interested in anybody." He zips back up his backpack, letting it fall behind him. "Here." He tosses a crumpled green shirt at me.

I stare at the shirt, its UFO with the stereotypical alien doing the peace sign at me. "But nobody else is like me..."

"Look," he begins, stopping in front of me, "I honestly don't understand you when it comes to this, and I don't think I ever will. But my mama taught me not to be an asshole and to respect other people, and other people really ought to know that."

I snort. "Your 'mama' sure is a wise lady." That earns me a light punch to the arm.

"Shuddup," he says. The bell rings, signaling that lunch is over. "Well, I'll see you next period. Bye."

"See ya," I say as he leaves.

I look back down at the shirt.

You know, earlier I said that being an alien sucks––but it isn't _me_ being an alien that sucks; it's instead how _others_ treat aliens that sucks. And you know what? My friend's right: they shouldn't be assholes in the first place.

I take off my wet shirt and put on the new one.


End file.
